


wishing to be the friction in your jeans

by blooms



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dom/sub, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Hiatus, Save Rock and Roll Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8479864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooms/pseuds/blooms
Summary: Patrick wouldn’t stop doing it. The Hip Thing, as Pete was calling it in his head. Every show, unfailingly, Patrick would grind his hips and practically make out with the mic as he sang, wishing to be the friction in your jeans. And every show, unfailingly, Pete would get embarrassingly hard embarrassingly fast.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This was _supposed_ to be a PWP. 6k words later, I'm not so sure what it is...  
>  2) I actually wrote this like half a year ago but I'm a terrible lazy about revising pls just take it from me now  
> 3) I have like 6 other peterick wips going on so hopefully you'll see me around more?!  
> 4) Patrick's [sugar hips](http://petezapizza.tumblr.com/tagged/sugar-hips) torture me on a daily basis

Boners always had the most inconvenient timing. Pete had hoped to leave the ‘awkward boner’ stage behind in his teenage years, and as he entered his twenties he had actually been hopeful for a little bit there, but then came Patrick, and _God_ , that voice made Pete feel things. In his chest, because those were his words, _their_ words, that Patrick had taken and shaped into something beautiful and amazing, and it made Pete’s heart swell. But also, well. In his dick.

Patrick had a voice like Pete couldn’t describe, because he could do anything with it, could sing sweet like honey or low and filthy, could soothe Pete to sleep or make his pulse spike in arousal. Pete loved Patrick’s voice fiercely, and because Pete only had so much self-control, sometimes he wrote lyrics just to see the shape they would take in Patrick’s mouth. (The answer: Hot as sin. The consequence: Consistent boners to certain lines at every concert. At least he was predictable.)

So, Pete was used to being half-hard mid-concert. Even without Patrick’s horrible sexy voice, the energy from shows would do that to him anyway, and it didn’t really get to him anymore. But this was a different matter entirely.

It was their first tour after their hiatus. Pete had been to a few of Patrick’s shows for _Soul Punk_ , when he’d had time; he’d seen how, over the past few years, he had grown confident, bolder, had learned how to work a crowd, had started to believe he was as good as Pete had always known he was. Watching it now, on stage with him, left Pete kind of breathless--good thing he wasn’t the one doing the singing.

Pete for his part was more than happy to hang back, let Patrick be the star of the show--it was what Pete had wanted all along (well, yeah, jumping around all over stage had been fun and the attention had been pretty fun too, but Patrick was amazing and he deserved all eyes on him, okay?), but he hadn’t known how much the transformation would affect _him_.

It happened during _Sugar We’re Goin’ Down_. “Is this more than you bargained for yet?” Patrick demanded, the crowd screaming the words back with fervor, and Pete couldn’t stop grinning because this was still their song, theirs and the fans’, this was them, and that hadn’t changed, and from the look on Patrick’s face, he was enjoying it every bit as much as Pete was.

“Oh, don’t mind me, I’m watching you two from the closet, wishing to be the friction in your jeans,” Patrick sang, and _rolled his hips_.

The crowd screamed. Good, because Pete was pretty sure he messed up his chord. He didn’t even know it was possible to get hard that fast.

Pete’s brain was a little stuck, replaying the scene over in his mind and imagining what those hips might feel like against his own while he hoped muscle memory was enough to carry him through the rest of the song.

As it turned out, muscle memory had to carry him through the rest of the show, which sucked a little during their new songs.

 

Afterward, Pete jacked off in the bathroom. It was quick, almost unthinking, his hand sliding roughly up and down a few times before he released with a shudder.

“Please let this be a one-time thing,” he muttered as he washed his hands, then went to rejoin the others.

Masturbating to thoughts of his best friend was not new. Nearly coming in his pants as a direct result of something said best friend did--well, that wasn’t _new_ , but it shouldn’t have been happening _anymore_ , for Christ’s sake. Pete really didn’t want to have to relearn how to look Patrick in the eye.

When he got back to them, the others were still high from the energy of the concert. Patrick was grinning from ear to ear and something loosened in Pete’s chest that he hadn’t known was tight in the first place. No matter what, Patrick was still Patrick, the person Pete loved in every sense of the word, and no awkward boner, no matter how horribly reminiscent of about six or seven years ago it may be, could get in the way of that.

 

It was not, in fact, a one-time thing. Patrick wouldn’t stop doing it. The Hip Thing, as Pete was calling it in his head. Every show, unfailingly, Patrick would grind his hips and practically make out with the mic as he sang, _wishing to be the friction in your jeans_. And every show, unfailingly, Pete would get embarrassingly hard embarrassingly fast.

It was all sorts of frustrating, because he couldn’t do anything during the show, and afterwards, he was too wound up to do anything but bring himself over the edge in the bathroom, quick and furtive like the first time--besides, people were still expecting him to, like, socialize and whatever. His only relief was at night, in the privacy of his hotel room (and thank God they could afford separate rooms now), where Pete had time to close his eyes and explore.

Pete’s favorite thing about Patrick (okay, that was a lie, everything was his favorite thing about Patrick, but anyway) was his voice, and by extension, his mouth. And so it shouldn't be too surprising that one of Pete’s favorite fantasies was of those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, tongue swirling and teasing the tip, lapping up the pre-come before he took Pete all the way in, until his lips brushed his balls (fantasy!Patrick had no gag reflex). Sometimes Pete held himself as still as he could while he brought himself off, breath tight in his chest, his dick slicked with lube that he wished was Patrick’s saliva. Other times, he rutted helplessly into the mattress, imagining that Patrick would let him fuck that beautiful mouth.

Now, though, all thoughts were on those hips. Pete lay on his back, eyes closed. His boxers were pushed down to his ankles and one hand wrapped loosely around his dick, and he imagined Patrick’s weight on top of him, heavy and warm. It was probably burned in his mind, the way Patrick rolled his hips on stage, all confident and sexy, and as he imagined it against himself, imagined feeling the firm outline of Patrick’s dick through the fabric, pressing insistently against him, Pete squeezed his hand around himself and bucked his hips up, mouth falling open in a groan.

God, he wanted to feel it so bad, Patrick pressed up against him and slowly, sensually grinding his hips. With his free hand, Pete clutched at the sheets, whining low in his throat. His hand was a poor substitute for what he really wanted, but he’d always had a vivid imagination.

Patrick was smothering him. Pete knew what it felt like, was hilariously tactile with Patrick considering the fact that he actually was trying to hide his years-long crush, and pulled him onto couches and beds for cuddle sessions more often than not. Patrick had lost a lot of weight over the hiatus but he was still heavyset enough to be familiar, warm and comfortable, a grounding presence when Pete got so worked up he felt he might just phase out of existence.

So Patrick was smothering him, breathing hot on Pete’s neck, arms bracketing his sides. And then he ground down on his hips and Pete was pushing back up eagerly, breath coming in harsh pants. Patrick’s lips brushed his ear, murmuring filthy, melodic nothings, and a hand tangled in his hair.

“Please,” Pete gasped, rocking into his hand, “ _please_.”

Patrick’s pants were gone, no more layers between them as he rubbed his dick against Pete’s own, hard and delicious. Pete’s fingers (in reality still clutching at the sheets) dug into Patrick’s back. For a moment he was thrown off-balance, unable to decide right away whether Patrick still had a shirt on or not, whether he was gripping at a sweaty tee or smooth skin.

Fuck it, Patrick was wholly naked on top of him, grinding and moaning, nipples hard and sliding against Pete’s bare chest (Pete was wearing a shirt, but whatever, brain, shut up; downstairs brain was in charge right now) as he moved rhythmically up and down, Pete arching to meet him, thrusting his hips into empty air where Patrick should have been.

“Patrick, ‘Trick-- _fuck_ ,” Pete moaned tensing and releasing in the space of a breath. He gasped as he shook through his orgasm, spilling all over his hand and stomach, and when he came down from the rush, he felt a flush rise high in his cheeks.

Somehow, he’d felt a lot less guilty getting off to fantasies about his best friend before he’d actually vocalized it, had moaned Patrick’s name in breathless need to an empty room.

Pete stared at the ceiling as his heart rate returned to something more regular. So. Tomorrow was going to be fun.

 

Slipping up and saying Patrick’s name was like opening a floodgate. Pete had long since reconciled with himself the fact that he was hopelessly in love with his best friend. He felt full on it sometimes, overwhelmingly so, he just loved Patrick _so damn much_ , but he was used to it. It was a constant in his life, so integral to who he was he could go days without really thinking about it. Pete was Pete, 5’6”, tattooed, a little messed up in the head, and a lot in love with Patrick. And he knew Patrick loved him back, even if it wasn’t the same way, and it was good. It was more than Pete could hope to ask for.

But he was also really, really, an awful lot in lust with Patrick, too, and that was something he knew Patrick would never be able to give back to him. That made Pete feel kind of bad and also like a creep for fantasizing about him almost every night. But it was the only way he could have Patrick, and Pete was greedy and wanted all the Patrick he could get, a fantasy version that wanted to marry and fuck him, not necessarily in that order, included.

Another person might be more concerned about the number of idle domestic fantasies. Pete liked to imagine lacing his fingers through Patrick’s, brushing his lips across his knuckles, the back of his hand (sometimes he even let himself imagine there was a ring there). Liked to imagine Patrick looking at him with fondness probably tinged with exasperation before leaning in to kiss him. Liked to imagine sleeping with him, not fucking, just lying in bed together, legs tangled under the covers and exchanging slow, sleepy kisses until they drifted off. Those were all par for the course for Pete. And, well, he could get most of that, sans kisses. He could hold Patrick’s hand, could get those fond looks, could even curl up with him to sleep sometimes when Pete’s head wouldn’t shut up or when Patrick was feeling extra-indulgent or extra-worked up himself, and even though he wished he could take Patrick’s mouth, which always looked so devastatingly soft, into his own, it was enough.

But now Patrick wasn’t just his go-to fantasy when Pete got off. Now Pete was painfully aware of how much he wanted the _real_ Patrick. How much he actually wanted to push Patrick against a wall (or the other way around, let’s be real) and kiss him senseless, to bite and suck hard enough to leave incriminating red marks. How much he wanted to go down on him, and to hear his own name fall broken from Patrick’s lips as Pete took him apart.

Patrick had started bitching Pete out for spacing out all the time, but that just sort of made Pete want to kiss him more, partly to shut him up, partly because Patrick was cute when he was grumpy but not seriously angry.

It was possible that the tour had become just a little bit unbearable for Pete, and he couldn’t decide whether it was in the best or worst way.

 

Pete had the whole thing under wraps and under control. He was used to hiding his feelings, especially when they came to his feelings for Patrick. At first it was because he didn’t want to scare away the poor teenager, then it was because he didn’t want to fuck it up for the band, and finally it was because he didn’t want to lose his best friend, and he still didn’t.

But it was possible he’d been staring at Patrick a little too much lately. And it was possible Patrick had noticed.

Most of the time, Pete felt like he and Patrick understood each other perfectly, no words needed between them, fluent in their shared unspoken language. Other times, Pete realized he really had no idea what sort of thoughts were rolling around in Patrick’s mind. Patrick would catch Pete staring, and Pete would hurriedly turn away. When he glanced back, Patrick was still looking at him, eyes dark and thoughtful, and Pete couldn’t help but feel nervous and exposed.

“Huh,” Patrick said, once.

“What?” Pete asked, already defensive.

“Nothing,” Patrick said.

“It’s not nothing, asshole. What is it?”

Patrick just smiled, a little one that quirked the corners of his mouth upward.

“Dude, are you feeling okay?” Pete asked.

“Never better,” Patrick said, and the thing was, it sounded true.

 

So, maybe things weren’t as under wraps as Pete had thought, because a couple of shows later, as Pete was mentally gearing himself for the awful, terrible, salacious sway of Patrick’s hips while he sang about friction in jeans, Patrick _looked_ at him. Looked at him, rocked his hips as usual, and _winked_.

 _What the fuck?_ Pete mouthed, and the next line vibrated with Patrick’s laughter.

Pete couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Patrick had caught on, Patrick _knew_ , and--was he messing with him? The very thought was like a punch to the gut.

 _Grand Theft Autumn_ was a few songs down the setlist, and Pete realized he had a chance, here. He’d been holding back on the whole stage gay routine, mostly because he was still happy about Patrick’s newfound confidence in the spotlight, and he didn’t want to distract from it. Partly because he’s afraid Patrick will think they’re too old for Pete to mess around like that on stage. But they always went to each other during the interlude of _Grand Theft Autumn_ \--it was muscle memory by this point, but Pete couldn’t be more conscious of it now as he stepped towards Patrick, knowing he had only a handful of seconds.

He pressed his forehead to Patrick’s shoulder first, because that was familiar, comforting. He knew the fans got a kick out of it whenever he hung all over Patrick on stage, but he didn’t do it so much for the attention (okay, sometimes he did) as for an excuse to be close to Patrick, and not even like, in _that_ way.

The energy thrumming through the air during shows was amazing, but sometimes it was a little too much like when everything was moving too fast in and around Pete and he needed Patrick there to help ground him again.

Right now, though, the energy from the concert felt far away, everything hyperfocused in Pete’s core. Somehow, that seemed to slow time enough so that he could take a steadying breath and lift his head from Patrick’s shoulder and whisper into his ear, “Don’t fuck with me. You’d better not be fucking with me, because I swear to God--” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe.”

Patrick straightened up. Pete knew he was about to walk away. “I love you,” Pete said, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could help it, and they walked in opposite directions across the stage.

He was afraid to look at Patrick again, worried about what he would see. Maybe Patrick really was joking. Or maybe Patrick was down to fuck but he still didn’t love him like that. Maybe he’d look _sad_ , and that would be the worst, because it wasn’t Patrick’s fault Pete was stupidly in love with him and couldn’t keep his feelings from spilling everywhere, making a mess of things as usual, God, why couldn’t he just control it better--

But then he met Patrick’s eyes, and Patrick was giving him that exasperated-fond smile, the one that made Pete forget why he was getting so worked up anyway, and he blew out a breath and threw himself into the rest of the show.

 

The moment they got backstage to wait for their encore, Pete was pulling Patrick to the nearest dark corner.

“Pete, what--”

Pete pulled him into a hug. The night air was cold but Patrick was warm and sweaty, still buzzing with energy from the show, and so was he, and it was perfect. It was so perfect, he could feel a laugh bubbling up inside of him.

He pulled back and cupped Patrick’s cheeks. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, and his voice came out lower, rougher than he’d intended.

“ _Now_ you ask?” Patrick said, and even in the dark Pete could see him roll his eyes as he referred to the countless times Pete had kissed his cheek or whatever else he did in the past.

“This time it matters,” Pete said, and Patrick’s face softened.

Instead of answering, Patrick leaned forward, and Pete’s lips parted of their own accord. God, those beautiful full lips were even softer than he imagined them to be. Pete kissed back eagerly, and Patrick huffed a hot, amused breath on his face before kissing him again, this time sliding his tongue in, his hands curled loosely at the back of Pete’s head, and Pete was thoroughly convinced that all the warmth in the universe was right here.

“Mmm,” Patrick sighed into his mouth, and Pete remembered why he’d pulled Patrick to a secluded corner in the first place.

His hands slid down Patrick’s side--Patrick twitched a little, ticklish--and tugged his hips flush against his own.

Patrick’s eyes flew open and he broke the kiss.

“Don’t act surprised,” Pete said. “You know I’ve been hard since _Sugar_.”

Patrick’s eyelashes fluttered, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Right,” he said. “Because of this.”

And in a slow, deliberate, better-than-all-of-Pete’s-fantasies motion, he rolled his hips right up against Pete.

“Yeah,” Pete said, breath hitching. He dug his fingers into Patrick’s hips, trying to keep him there, to hold him as close as possible. “Because of that.”

Patrick was still grinding against him. “If I’d known this was all it took to get you hard, I would have done it years ago. Well--maybe it wouldn’t have been as attractive back then,” he added, wry.

“You’re gorgeous and always have been, so don’t even start that with me. And, babe,” he added with a snort, “everything you do makes me hard.” He wasn’t sure if Patrick’s blush was because of the pet name or because of what he’d said, but he didn’t stop to ask, rolling right on to add, “If I had known you were into me, too, I would have done _you_ years ago.”

Patrick muttered, “I don’t know how you _didn’t_ know, honestly.” He punctuated the statement by snapping his hips against Pete harder than before, probably because he was being all cute and grumpy, but Patrick didn’t take into account that the pressure would just turn Pete on _more_. He swore his hands flew to Patrick’s pants by themselves.

“I know, I’m slow, I’m sorry, I love you,” Pete said as he tugged his pants down, underwear with it, and dropped to his knees.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Patrick asked, pushing at his shoulders. “We have to be back out there in a few minutes.”

Pete looked up and grinned wolfishly at him. “Then I’ll be fast.”

“You’re going to make a mess!” Patrick protested.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Pete winked, and took Patrick into his mouth.

Patrick gasped, a breathy little _fuck_ escaping his lips. His grip on Pete’s shoulders tightened and his knees buckled a little.

“You’re actually the worst,” Patrick hissed, and Pete would have laughed at the blatant lie that was but his mouth was, uh, kind of full. Instead he just sucked, and took satisfaction in the way Patrick’s complaints fell away to a moan.

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick whispered, his hands sliding into Pete’s hair. “Like that, like that--can you, just--” His fingers tightened in Pete’s hair and he started guiding his head, rocking his hips in time.

Trust Patrick to take control instead of letting Pete do this for him. Not that he wasn’t happy to oblige, not when it made Patrick whimper and moan like that, making Pete’s head swirl with happiness and arousal. Pete closed his eyes, drawing a long breath through his nose. His neck was already protesting its craning position and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his jaws started aching, but the helpless little noises Patrick was making were so worth it. Pete palmed his erection through his pants, desperate for some sort of pressure; his other hand curled around Patrick’s thigh, steadying.

Patrick made a stifled sound; he’d probably bitten his lip to try and keep it from escaping, which, fuck, was just as hot as if he’d made the noise in the first place. For a moment, there was just the sound of heavy breathing. The murmur of the crowd cut through the silence, and Pete remembered where they were, steps away from thousands of fans, the others probably wondering where he and Patrick had gotten to, and he whined around Patrick’s cock and dug the heel of his hand into his own, wondering if he was about to come in his pants. Patrick seemed to lose focus and stopped pushing and pulling so insistently, hips stuttering erratically and losing tempo as he edged on orgasm.

“Pete,” Patrick said, and then, like a revelation, “ _Pete_.” And then he was coming into Pete’s mouth in a hot, salty rush. Pete swallowed, bringing his other hand up to help steady Patrick even though he was painfully hard and basically begging for release, and giving a couple light, teasing sucks as Patrick shuddered through the aftershocks.

When he was spent, Pete pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at Patrick, sly grin and comment at the ready, but Patrick was hauling him up and kissing him before Pete could even register what was happening. Patrick licked inside his mouth, probably tasting his own come, and the heat from that thought went straight to Pete’s dick. He really hoped that the pre-come that was certainly staining his pants at least wouldn’t be visible.

Patrick broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to Pete’s and breathing heavily.

“Love you,” he mumbled, suddenly shy, and Pete thought his heart might burst.

“Love you, too,” Pete whispered, hugging him tightly, and then, because he was still, after all, ridiculously hard, guided Patrick’s hand down to his pants.

Patrick pulled his arm back. “Oh, no,” he said, hitching up his own pants. “We have to go on for our encore.”

Pete was flabbergasted. Patrick was already walking away. “But--but--”

Patrick flipped him off without looking, then half-turned back to throw him a shit-eating grin. Pete laughed despite himself and jogged to catch up.

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Patrick said, walking toward the hotel bed with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The porno opening of Pete’s _dreams_.

Of course, because Pete was Pete, he had to ruin it by asking (though without any real heat), “Do you mean during your shower or the show, asshole?” Ever the go-getter, Pete was already lounging naked on top of the sheets because like hell he was going to sleep without getting laid tonight.

“Shower,” Patrick said immediately. “The show was your own fault, _asshole_.”

“You started it,” Pete muttered, petulant, but then Patrick was kneeling on the bed, cupping his cheeks and kissing him, letting his towel fall away like that, and he supposed he could forgive him. As if he ever wouldn’t.

Patrick pulled away, but just slightly, their lips so close that they brushed Pete’s when he spoke. “Sorry,” Patrick said, in the way that meant he wasn’t sorry, but his thumb was brushing his cheek gently, so that had to count for something. Patrick’s voice dipped when he said, “You were really good and patient. What can I give you?”

Pete trembled, and it was almost out of his control when he said, “Anything you want to do to me.” And then, almost an afterthought, “Please.”

Patrick pulled his head back and raised his eyebrows. He looked like he was about to ask a question, but then his mouth formed an “O” of understanding and closed again.

“I want,” Patrick said after a moment, each word careful and deliberate, thumb still slowly stroking Pete’s cheek, “to fuck you. Is that okay?”

Pete nodded fervently. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Good… So, red, yellow, green?” Patrick said, his tone abruptly professional.

Pete blinked. “Huh?”

“For safewords,” Patrick clarified.

“Fuck, you know I won’t need that with you,” Pete said. He had no doubt that Patrick could read him better than anyone. He also had no doubt that he’d be totally down with anything Patrick wanted to do to him.

Patrick just stared at him expectantly.

“Okay, yeah, green, whatever,” Pete said, and kissed his cheek. “C’mon, ‘Trick, fuck me.”

Patrick’s appeased smile was brief, covered quickly by a disapproving scowl. “You’re not the boss here,” Patrick said, and pushed him down onto his back. Pete grinned up at him and bit back his comment as Patrick covered his mouth with his own.

God, that mouth. Pete was never getting over it. Patrick kissed him slow and deep, sliding his tongue lazily against Pete’s, and Pete sighed happily, bringing his hands up to play with the soft, still-damp strands of Patrick’s hair.

Patrick bit down on on Pete’s lower lip, and Pete hummed in approval, already half-hard, the low noise intensifying when Patrick’s hand slid down to his chest and his thumb started idly rubbing his nipple.

“I saw you watching me,” Patrick murmured, his thumb moving in slow circles. “Every night. First it was just during the shows. Then it was between them, too.” He pinched, and Pete gasped. “You couldn’t stop looking.”

“Couldn’t help it,” Pete said. “Couldn’t help myself. You’re so beautiful, so fucking gorgeous, just wanted to touch you all over and feel you all over me--”

Patrick pressed his finger to Pete’s lips. “Shhh. You talk too much. And think too much. But it’s okay, I’ve got you now. By the end of this, the only thing you’ll remember how to say is _please_.”

Pete whimpered.

“I think,” Patrick said, tilting his head, “you’ve looked at me a bit too much.” He pulled back, kneeling on the bed. “I want you on your hands and knees.”

Pete had half a mind to protest; he wanted to look at Patrick, to kiss him and touch him, and he thought for a second that maybe he was a little too used to being contrary and getting into petty arguments with Patrick for dominance play to really work out after all, but then Patrick narrowed his eyes and Pete did as he was told. Right. Patrick was in charge now, just like he was on stage.

The sheets weren’t anything to look at, just plain white, cast in orange by the bedside lamp. Pete heard the click of a cap opening, and he knew it was lube. Sooner than he expected, Patrick was pushing his first finger in, cold and lube-slicked, and Pete’s breath hitched, hole clenching instinctively.

“Come on,” Patrick murmured. “I thought you wanted this.”

“I do, I do,” Pete said, and tried to relax. He closed his eyes, clenched and unclenched his fingers around the comforter.

“You want to be my aftershow fuck?” Patrick asked, curling his finger inside; Pete twitched, pre-come already beading on his dick.

“Yes.” _And whenever and wherever you want me, really._

“Yeah?” Patrick said, low and soft. “Good.” Seriously, Patrick could get him off with his voice alone. He slid another finger in too soon; it still felt too tight, and Pete grunted a little. “I’m not here to mess around. You’re getting it quick and dirty. That’s about as much as you deserve for leering at me for the past two weeks.”

“I can live with that,” Pete gritted out.

Patrick chuckled. “You must be desperate for anything by now.” His lips brushed the small of Pete’s back. “You look good like this. Submitting to me.”

The bed shifted as he crawled up the bed, fingers still working inside Pete. Patrick kissed Pete’s shoulder, lingering, letting his teeth graze over the skin, and pushed in a third finger. Pete arched his back, letting out a surprised little, “Ah!”

“Too much?” Patrick asked, voice higher, and Pete was thrown for a moment realizing that was his _regular_ voice. Fuck, Patrick had a good sex voice.

It kinda hurt, but Pete could deal. “Nope. Super green, Captain.”

He could practically hear Patrick rolling his eyes. “Okay,” he said, breath ghosting over Pete’s back.

Patrick’s fingers twisted inside him, and when they brushed his prostate, Pete’s whine came out higher and needier than he intended. It felt good, the fullness afforded by Patrick’s fingers, and Pete was struck by a need for Patrick’s dick inside him, like, _right now_.

He and Patrick seemed to be on the wavelength, because his fingers were sliding out and Pete heard the familiar tear of a condom wrapper being opened.

“Wait, I don’t, do we have to?” Pete asked.

Patrick didn’t say anything, but Pete could practically sense his hesitation.

“I know I’m clean, and, I mean. You didn’t exactly stop me from blowing you without a condom earlier.”

“Wasn’t sure how you’d feel about me coming in your ass,” Patrick said, and Pete had no idea how Patrick could say shit like that so matter-of-factly; ten years ago, Pete would have come in his pants at the very thought and he was definitely no less averse to the idea now.

“Don’t be a dumbass,” he said.

Patrick huffed, but moments later he was pushing inside of Pete, thick and hot and sans condom, and Pete’s mouth fell open in a long moan as he slid all the way in.

“God, God, you feel so good,” he breathed.

“I don’t want to hear another word from you,” Patrick said, slipping back into his role like it was nothing.

Pete clamped his mouth shut and focused on the feeling of Patrick full up inside him.

Patrick waited for another moment, as if making sure Pete had really shut up, then he began moving, and Pete bit his lip, wondering if Patrick meant he didn’t want him making noises, too. Which wouldn’t be fair, because _Patrick_ was groaning quietly as he fucked Pete, and those sounds were all going straight to his dick, which was straining for pressure. It was especially unfair when one of Patrick’s hands splayed across his chest before finding his nipple again, and his thumb began circling.

Pete whimpered before he could stop himself, and Patrick started moving faster. He could feel the warmth from Patrick’s chest brushing his back, touching but not quite leaning his weight. Desperate to pay attention to something else lest he come before Patrick even touched his dick, Pete stared at the sheets beneath him. There were little dark spots where sweat had fallen from his forehead. On his hands and knees, taking it from behind, it felt almost like an anonymous fuck. But he hadn’t had one of those in a long time and this was Patrick, Patrick, his Patrick, and _holy shit Patrick is fucking me_ , Pete thought, deliriously hot and happy. His dick throbbed painfully.

Patrick was mouthing as his shoulder, open-mouthed half-kisses, probably too gone to kiss him properly and not noticing that Pete’s dick was honest-to-God about to explode.

“Patrick,” Pete panted. “Patrick, Patrick…”

Patrick let out a low moan and tensed, and Pete wondered if he was about to come, but then he started thrusting again, and his teeth sunk into the flesh of Pete’s shoulder.

“Touch me, Patrick, God, I need--”

Patrick took his mouth off Pete. His forehead pressed against Pete’s back for a brief moment, then lifted.

“You’re just here for me right now,” he said, and God, his voice was hoarse and gorgeous, and Pete shivered. “If you want something, you’re gonna have to beg for it.”

“Please,” Pete said, swallowing and closing his eyes. “Please touch me, please. I’ll do anything--I need this, need you right now, please.”

“Hmm,” Patrick said, like he was considering it, like an _asshole_.

Pete loved him.

“Please, please, please,” Pete said, trailing off in a whimper, and he gasped as Patrick’s fingers wrapped around his dick.

It took all of Pete’s willpower not to start immediately bucking into his hand. He held himself as still as he could considering his arms and probably the rest of his body were trembling.

Patrick’s hand squeezed with just the right amount of pressure, and slid up and down Pete’s dick in time with his thrusts. Pete gave up on biting back his moans. His fingers clenched in the sheets and he drew a heaving breath, trying to steady himself, trying not to come without permission, but it was hard because Patrick was still fucking him steadily, hitting Pete in just the right spot each time.

Patrick leaned closer to Pete, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. His breaths came harsh and fast against Pete’s ear, and Pete just about lost it.

“Patrick,” he whined.

“What,” Patrick said.

“Please tell me I can come,” he said, “Please, because I don’t think I can hold it off any longer, feels so good--”

“What did I tell you about talking too much?” Patrick asked, but his voice curled in amusement.

Pete licked his lips. “Please,” he said. “Please, please, please let me come.”

“Okay,” Patrick breathed, sounding a bit dazed. “You can do that.”

Patrick had barely finished talking when Pete came so hard he swore he saw stars.

“God, Pete,” Patrick said, voice hitching, and he curled tight around Pete and shook through his orgasm, filling Pete up and feeling fucking _amazing_.

The moment Patrick pulled out of him, Pete collapsed onto the bed, letting his face smush right into the blanket. “Awesome,” he muttered, muffled.

He heard Patrick laughing above him, then felt a hand run through his hair.

Pete turned his head so he could speak properly. “You’re awesome,” he informed Patrick.

“Thanks,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes, still stroking his hair. “You’re not bad, yourself.”

Pete snorted. “Love you, too.”

“I love you,” Patrick said, seriously. “And, uh, I didn’t mean anything dickish I might have said while we were--I mean, I want to be good to you, and--”

“Wow, you suck at this aftercare thing,” Pete said, and Patrick flushed.

“Shut up, you’re an asshole.”

“Oh, just cuddle me already,” Pete said, grinning.

Patrick made a face at him, but he laid down next to Pete anyway, and Pete hummed happily as he scooted closer.

Patrick looked so beautiful, Pete just had to close the space to kiss him. “I love you,” he said, marveling the fact that he could say it now--not that he didn’t say it a lot before, but that he could say it now and be understood for all the meaning behind it.

“I love you too,” Patrick said softly.

Overwhelmed, Pete could do nothing but bury his face in Patrick’s neck and smile.

After a moment, Patrick shifted and pulled back, and Pete made a noise of protest, but Patrick was just pulling the sheet over from the side of the bed and wrapping them in it.

“Too lazy to get under,” Patrick whispered, and kissed him.

Pete had to bite down another _I love you_ and kissed him back. He tangled their legs together, and they lay like that, kissing soft and gentle until they drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D


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